


Engagement/Give & Take

by Antosha



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adolescent Sexuality, Analingus, Bat-Bogey Hex, Birthday Sex, F/M, First Time, Fleur Delacour and Bill Weasley's Wedding, Ginny torturing Harry, Oral Sex, Post-Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Ron Weasley is a Good Friend, Ron is not stupid, Sneaky Ginny, Teen Romance, The Burrow (Harry Potter), inspired by reallycorking art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:34:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24042931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antosha/pseuds/Antosha
Summary: Ginny has a plan. Or two. (Harry/Ginny, written pre-DH.)
Relationships: Fleur Delacour/Bill Weasley, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Kudos: 32





	1. Engagement

**Author's Note:**

> These two stories were written after I'd begun to realize that maybe JKR had broken Harry and Ginny up for a narrative purpose. So I played with that.
> 
> Both pieces would later find a home in my Horcrux Hunt™ epic, [Back to the Garden](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24128329).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my entry for hpgw_otp's One Magical Year challenge. My prompt was the Bat-Bogey Hex. Hee!
> 
> And yes, this is real, honest-to-goodness Harry/Ginny. Luna is nowhere to be seen, though I'm sure wherever she is, she's quite happy!
> 
> Thanks to aberforths_rug for the beta!

There were two plans: A and B. Ginny figured that she should start with A and see where that got her. That still left her Plan B. As a fallback.

The first day, she just stood near him. True, it was the plan, but honestly, she needed to do it—needed to be near him again, to smell his Harry scent and remember what being near him had been like.

Not too close. Arm's length. Behind him. To the side.

The most gratifying thing was that he clearly knew _exactly_ where she was. Though their eyes never made contact and he never so much as turned his head towards her, she saw the way his breath caught when she moved closer and the way he deflated when she moved further away. In a funny way, it was the sexiest thing he had ever done to her, that unwitting, unwilling awareness.

So far, the plan was working.

The second day, she began to brush by him—never _quite_ touching, and certainly not flesh-to-flesh, but close fly-bys that ruffled his shirtsleeves and mussed his eternally mussed hair. It made her smile when he began to flinch.

Still they had not spoken more than pleasantries or practicalities—the passing of food at dinner, the exchange of bathroom schedules. Still they had not looked one another in the eye.

The third day, she moved further away, as much for her own sanity as to move her project forward. His scent, his proximity—she was going to lose all sense of discipline soon, and she needed to do this _right_.

Now, however, she kept her eyes upon him at all times. At meals. While they helped Ginny's mother prepare the garden for the wedding, moving some bushes and filling in gnome holes, her eyes never left his face, studying it for hints and clues—and for pure aesthetic pleasure.

At first, he didn't notice. A number of times at the breakfast table, he caught her eye, then glanced away, looking as if he didn't want to be caught. As they worked through the morning clearing the back garden of weeds and Gnomes for the wedding, he began to look puzzled; it was gratifying, in a way, to realize just how often he had been looking at her, and amusing to watch his perplexion that she was looking right back at him every single time.

At lunch, he stared resolutely at his plate, and spoke to Ron in monosyllables.

That afternoon, Ginny's mum sent them all up to their various rooms to clean, so as to present the most cheerful possible face to the Delacours, whom she was now eager to please.

Ginny's room was opposite the loo. As she remade her bed—Hermione puttering along beside Ginny, doing her work without magic too 'just to be fair'—Ginny saw the door to the toilet open, saw a familiar head of untamed black hair. Her eyes stayed on him and he seemed to feel her stare; he looked up.

They held eye contact for what felt like hours, though it was probably only thirty seconds. Harry's amazing, beautiful, shocking green eyes slid from surprise to longing to pleading before he blinked and disappeared.

Ginny gasped as if she had been holding her breath the entire time—which, come to think of it, she probably had.

“Ginny,” Hermione said, “you're driving him mad.”

“I know,” said Ginny, feeling what she thought of as her Bill smile well up—not as open and guileless as Charlie's or Ron's, nor as patently wicked as the twins'. “That's the idea.”

Hermione wasn't having any. “Ginny, you know how much you mean to him. You know how it's killing him not to be with you.”

Ginny stared down at her hands, at the calluses where a year's worth of constant practice with Quaffles had toughened her fingers and her palms. “I know.”

“Then please, Ginny, don't be cruel to him.” Hermione's eyes too were focused on Ginny's most unfeminine hands. “Please.”

“I don't mean to be cruel,” Ginny said. “I just… need to remind him why he needs to come back. And to remind myself, I guess, just what it is I've promised to wait for.”

Hermione didn't seem pleased with the answer, but she accepted it.

As she lay in bed that night beside her friend, Ginny thought of the look in his eyes, that long, hungry look. Unable to sleep, unable to get the hot weight of that gaze out of her mind, Ginny gently touched herself, fingers beneath the huge old Grunnings t-shirt that she'd filched from the rubbish two years back.

On the fourth morning, Ginny began to touch _him_.

She put her hand on his shoulder before she sat beside him at breakfast and he dropped a butter dish—the same butter dish into which she had shoved her elbow all those years before—shattering it beyond repair.

Ginny's mum raised an eyebrow at her daughter, but made no comment, Banishing the shards, Scourgifying the butter, and bringing a new dish to the table.

She also assigned Harry to help Ginny to clear out the old shed so that the Delacours could store their carriage when they arrived that evening.

Harry looked terrified when she took his hand and led him outside. She heard Ron snort when the door closed behind them.

His hand trembled in hers as they approached the cobwebby old outbuilding. Ginny opened the door and pulled him inside.

As the door closed, she leaned in, letting her lips brush his earlobe as she said, “You're of age, Harry.”

“Hnnnh?” he whimpered.

“You can use your wand to clean this place out in a trice.”

“Oh,” he said, sounding both relieved and disappointed. She walked behind him as he drew his wand and began casting a rather impressive repertoire of cleaning charms.

“Where did you learn all of those domestic spells?” she murmured, letting her fingers trail down his back, which caused a _Scourgify_ to misfire, breaking some Muggle contraption that looked like a wireless, but seemed to be made up of wiring and glass bulbs that _popped_ rather satisfactorily.

“B-been fantasizing about scaring the piss out of my aunt for years,” he said, Summoning the broken tubes and then Banishing them to the ashbin. Ginny's fingers ran back up his spine and he shivered. “B-been paying attention to your mum.”

“What a good boy you are,” Ginny said, and then she did something that she had wanted to do for years: she slid her hand down his back and beneath the waistband of his jeans, cupping his magnificent bum through his boxers.

She and Harry had explored by touch a lot during their brief weeks together, but it had all been done fully clothed—Ginny had sensed that Harry needed to get used to the idea of actual physical contact, and so she had been willing to take it slow.

She wasn't willing any more.

Harry gasped. “ _Ginny. Please._ ”

“Please?” Ginny asked, voice and hand trembling. “You want me to—?”

“ _NO. Ginny. Pleeeeeeease.”_ He was arching forward. He was…

Ginny grinned and blushed, shocked and amazed at her own daring, pleased at the affect that she was having on him. “You don't want my hand on your backside, Harry?” she said. “How about the front, then?”

He stood there, rigid, unable to answer, bent forward at the waist, trying to hide what Ginny was certain was a full-blown erection.

Ginny pressed up against his back, that high, lovely bum against her belly, and let her hand trace around the crown of his right hip outside of his boxers. When she reached the front of his leg, she hesitated. Harry hissed—whether at the delay or at the actual sensation, Ginny wasn't sure.

This wasn't in the plan. Nothing like this was supposed to happen—at least, not until tomorrow.

Sod that.

Slowly, her cheek resting against Harry's shoulder, Ginny slid her fingers through the slit at the front.

Michael Corner had begged and begged Ginny to touch him while they were seeing each other. When she had finally given in, he had come the instant her fingers had touched his flesh. They'd barely been able to talk to each other after that.

Dean had been much more… reciprocal about the whole thing, which Ginny had rather liked. But he'd also been very specific about what could be done to whom, when. “No, it's too soon for that.” “It's time for you to let me lick your titties, Ginny!” The whole thing had lacked spontaneity. The afternoon that Harry and Ron had walked in on them snogging in the back corridor, Ginny had been _that close_ to tearing his robes open and jumping him. That had been part of the reason that she'd blown up at Ron so disastrously. Well, that and the look of betrayal and fury in Harry's eyes. And Ron's idiotic accusations.

Bloody hell.

Just as well they'd come in when they did, Ginny supposed.

Harry though—they had been totally at ease with each other from the start. She had let him know what was available without saying a word; he had done the same. Their explorations had felt _right_ —no need to hurry, after all, since they both knew where they were headed, and they both knew they'd arrive there eventually. Harry's lack of experience and his reticence hadn't bothered Ginny at all, and so he had managed not to be embarrassed or frustrated as her previous boyfriends had been.

Then it all fell to hell.

The very stiff cock in Ginny's hand was one whose contours she knew well—she'd been exploring them in her mind for years, and had begun mapping out its shape and texture through his trousers during their last weeks together. But she had never touched it directly—she didn't think anyone had ever touched it before her at all—and the smooth heat of it startled her. She squeezed it, thrilling at the way it swelled in her hand.

“ _FUCK!_ ” he moaned, a word that she had never heard him use, and Ginny giddily began to run her fingers up to the very moist tip—the head, long and tapered, what would _that_ feel like?—and then back down to the testicles that were round and tight against his body.

Ginny pressed against his back, stroking him gently.

“Stop. Ginny. _Stop!_ ” Harry grasped her wrist and held it; he pulled her hand away from his cock and out of his trousers. He turned and stepped away from her, looked at her, his mouth open, his eyes open, a damp spot showing on the front of his jeans. Then he ran out of the shed.

Ginny stood there, her crotch wet and warm from her own need, her hand moist and cooling from his.

Bugger.

She should have stuck to the plan.

Perhaps it was time to move on to Plan B?

Well, there was always time for that tomorrow.

When the Delacours flew in that afternoon, their Abraxan-drawn carriage becoming visible as it passed over the Lovegoods', gliding in to the paddock for a perfect landing, Harry made sure to stand right next to Ginny's parents. Even so, Ginny was gratified to sense him throwing her glances, even as the picture-perfect Delacours descended and began bestowing greeting kisses on all and sundry.

Fleur threw herself squealing into Bill's arms, and Ginny's stomach turned sour.

Ginny's mum had been planning that evening's dinner for weeks. They ate out in the garden, the silvery summer twilight stretching gorgeously through course after course, the tinkling laughter of Madame Delacour and her daughters adding a ridiculous glamour to the festive meal.

Ginny had been seated across from Harry, which should have been wonderful. Unfortunately, she was next to Fleur's little sister Gabrielle, who seemed determined to charm Harry's pants off that evening.

 _My job, you little French tart_ , Ginny thought ungenerously. It was hard to forgive her, to dismiss her as merely eleven. In the first place, Ginny remembered too well her own thoughts about Harry when she was eleven. In the second, the little bint was a part-Veela. And in the third… In the third, Harry seemed to be succumbing. He laughed at Gabrielle's jokes, had smiled at her ridiculous broken English. As they were clearing away after the meal, Gabrielle flitted up to him and began asking him about Hogwarts—questions that she had asked twice before at the table. When Harry politely answered _again_ , Gabrielle giggled, pushed up on her toes, and kissed him on the cheek.

Ginny wasn't aware having made any sound—indeed, no one else seemed to notice anything, not even Gabrielle—but Harry's eyes snapped to hers. At first, he looked mortified, apologetic. Then he took on a cheeky expression that Ginny herself knew only too well: _payback's a bitch_ , it said.

Bugger.

Once the Delacours had been set up in their pavilion beside the paddock—the soon-to-be-married couple's attempts to appear calm as they wished each other a good night fooled no one; they'd be off rutting as soon as everyone else turned in—Ginny joined her family in finishing the cleaning up and meandering back to the house. The Weasleys (plus two) all settled in the drawing room, their bellies full, their faces content. Hermione was resting her head on Ron's shoulder—an unheard-of display. Ron eyes were dark, however.

Harry. Harry looked drawn and tired. Even more drawn and tired than usual. When Molly Weasley began to listen to bloody Celestina Warbeck on the wireless, he excused himself with a yawn, disappearing up the stairs with remarkable speed and silence.

Ginny waited for five minutes, and then went to the kitchen. Just at the point when she thought the coast was clear, that she could follow up the stairs without being noticed, Ron came in and leaned lankly against the counter beside Ginny.

“Still hungry, Ron?” Ginny teased, trying not to engage him, trying not to let him launch into whatever ridiculous rant he seemed to have saved up for her.

Ron simply grunted, the same dark stare piercing her. “Ginny,” he said finally, “you're my sister and I love you. But if you hurt him, I swear I'll kill you.”

Ginny gaped. “ _What?_ ”

“You know he's in love with you, right?” Ron hissed. Before she had a chance to absorb that, let alone to answer, he continued, voice low and intense. “I've watched you the last few days. I've seen what you've been doing to him. You're not just driving him spare; you're _killing_ him.”

Too astonished to stop angry tears from welling up, Ginny was amazed that she nonetheless managed to keep her voice low. “Well sod him! If he wants something, he can bloody ask himself!”

Taking Ginny by the shoulders, Ron whispered fiercely into her ear. “It's not about what he _wants_ , Ginny, it's about what he can have.”

Ginny had no idea how to answer that.

“He…” Ron froze, the way he sometimes did when considering doing something he knew he shouldn't do.

“What, Ron?”

“We… We're going away. Soon.” His tone was soft, but there was no apology to it at all.

“Oh. I assumed.” Ginny backed away from her brother and looked up into his eyes. All of her brothers had those same deep blue eyes except for Charlie, and she'd always envied them. “When?”

With a wince and a quick glance to make sure no one was listening, Ron answered, “Soon. After the wedding.”

Not before her birthday. Ginny felt ridiculous feeling pleased.

“The thing is, Ginny, there's no time and no room for… for mucking about and playing games.”

Ginny felt heat rising up the back of her neck. “ _Games?_ I'm not playing bloody games.”

“Yes, you are,” Ron said, so quiet that she could barely hear him through the murmuring and warbling in the other room. “You are, and he has no idea what the rules are. It's time to move straight to the endgame, sis.”

Was he…? “What are you saying, Ron?”

He blushed—ears first and then, when he saw that she'd noticed, his whole face—and she knew _exactly_ what he was saying. She stared up into her brother's eyes and was shocked by she saw there; blushing or not, he had grown up a lot in the past year.

So had they all. “If it's any consolation,” Ron mumbled, “I've threatened to kill him too, if he hurts you.”

Ginny kissed him on the cheek. “You're a good friend, Ron. And a good brother. Sometimes,” she added with a smirk.

“Thanks,” he said, smirking back. Then his eyes were deep and still. “I was thinking maybe Hermione and I might take a nice walk out to the pond. A nice, long walk. Till, maybe, midnight?” He blushed on; his eyes never left hers.

“Sounds nice.”

“Hmm.” He nodded, began to turn, and then suddenly pulled Ginny into an enormous, sprawling hug. “Tease,” he said, an old taunt from when they were young and she would make sure that she finished her ice cream last.

“Prat,” she answered, as she had always done, and he smiled, hugged her again, and sauntered out of the room, leaving nothing between her and the stairs but her own failing nerve.

Ginny felt younger and sillier with every step that she climbed. Harry Potter had a task to focus on. He had made it clear that he didn't need any distractions, that he didn't want be diverted. Ron and Hermione had both begged her to leave him alone—hadn't they? What was she doing?

By the time that she reached the third landing, she felt exactly as she had that first summer that Harry had visited. It was as if her feet and arms and mouth didn't quite fit her body, and she was afraid of stumbling or squealing or breaking something at any moment. What was she doing?

Before she could worry that question any further, she simply _did_. She slipped through the door without knocking as she had been berating her brothers for doing since she was old enough to mind.

Harry Potter was lying back on the camp bed that had been his for years, face flushed, trousers around his knees and his hand full of… _Oh, my.  
_

“ _FUCK!_ ” they gasped in unison. An eruption of white sprayed over the opening between Harry's thumb and forefinger before Ginny had the presence of mind—or sensitivity—to turn away.

By the time she gathered the nerve to turn around again, Harry had managed to cover his lap with his pillow—or perhaps it was Ron's. Poor Ron. His eyes and mouth were open and round as three Dementors' mouths, and they seemed to be robbing her of her sense just as efficiently. Ginny and Harry gaped wordlessly at each other; she knew that she was blushing from her scalp to somewhere mid-thigh.

Bugger this. Ginny walked forward, eyes locked on Harry's. Harry's eyes, which did not blink. When she reached his bed, she sank beside him and drew out his wet, unresisting hand. Eye still on eye, she kissed the moisture off of his fingers.

The original plan had been to come up to his room, close the door, and disrobe, very, very slowly. Well, the original plan had been for her to come up to him on the _sixth_ night, but no plan survives the first engagement. Ginny had been sure that by this point Harry would have dissolve into a puddle of goo at her feet.

But she didn't want him to dissolve. She didn't want to torture him. She wanted to _love_ him, in any way that she could.

The taste of the jism on his hand was odd and sour, but it was him, and she sucked first one finger and then another into her mouth.

Eye still on eye.

When the hand was clean, she reached for the pillow and pulled it away.

Harry stopped her. “Ginny.” He seemed to be searching the depths of her eyes for something. Let him search. Let him find. “Ginny. I'm leaving. With Ron and Hermione.”

“I know.”

“I can't take you with us.”

“I know.”

At that he blinked, and then frowned.

Ginny reached out the last few inches to his cock, slid her fingers around it again as she had that afternoon—only now she could see the effect, could see his face darkening, could see the pupils diminishing within the green seawash of his irises. She stroked him twice, joy filling her as it stiffened, as a low groan escaped his lips.

 _Lips. Yes._ Still looking up at him, she began to lower her mouth to him, something the girls in her dormitory had _giggled about,_ that everyone said drove the boys wild, but that no one would ever admit to having done, that she had certainly never considered—

“No,” Harry grunted, grabbing her shoulders.

A disappointed moan bubbled up from Ginny's gut. How had she bollixed it? Had she broken the spell?

“You first.” Harry smiled fiercely and pushed Ginny backward, firmly but gently.

Ginny's disappointment turned to shock and delight as he ran his hands under the conservative A-line skirt that Ginny had borrowed from Hermione—had altered to fit Ginny's immense lack of curve—as he pushed the silk-lined wool up, as he slithered up between her knees and began to kiss his way up her thighs.

None of the girls had talked about _this_. Bints.

Unable to move, unable to breathe, Ginny could only watch as he reached the top of the her left thigh and peered up past the plain white knickers—she'd saved the silk ones for day six—and the crumpled skirt. She'd never been so glad not to have breasts; her view was unimpeded as he took the cotton knickers and, after puzzling at them for a moment, ripped them off of her body.

Harry eyes left hers now, and she knew that he was looking at her… her _thing—_ her pussy, her cunt, her quim, her bottom, her slit, her vulva. All of the names were ridiculous, but Harry looked anything but amused. Terrified, perhaps—or awe-struck if she were lucky—but deadly serious, he leaned forward and kissed her on _that place_.

Ginny heard a sound spilling out of her that she was quite certain that she had never made before. Harry looked up, alarmed; she found herself arching her pelvis up in frustration, trying to find that connection again.

He grinned then, and leaned back in, finding her lips with his lips once again. As his kissing became less tentative, as his tongue became more and more involved, Ginny found that she was incapable of watching; she flopped back onto the bed and let her eyes wander, losing herself in the sensation.

Truly, this was glorious. More than glorious. If any of her friends had experienced this, she forgave them now for not talking about it—how to find the words?

Harry's tongue found her most sensitive spot and she squawked again. He didn't stop this time; however, she did see his wand come up and cast a couple of quick spells that she recognized by the wand movements as an Imperturbable Charm and a Locking Charm.

The good boy had been working on his nonverbal spell-casting. Ginny would have to reward him for that.

During their foreshortened time together, they had done most of the things that could be done without removing clothing. One particularly happy hour by the lake, Ginny had climbed astride his lap and—much to Harry's evident shock—begun to grind her… _thing_ against _his_ thing. Their pelvises had rolled against each other for a few minutes before Harry had screamed and bucked like an offended Hippogriff, lifting her off of the ground; the pressure of his groin against hers had set off an explosion in _Ginny's_ loins that was unlike anything that she had ever experienced before.

The detonation that his tongue sparked made that first look like one of Fred and George's less successful fireworks. An eruption of pleasure washed outward from her center and as awareness returned, Ginny found herself lying limp, watching phantom colors spark across the dingy, white ceiling of Ron's room.

Harry climbed further up until they were eye to eye once again. His cheeks were glistening; she could smell herself on him, and instead of it being embarrassing it was somehow _wonderful_. Reaching up, she removed his glasses and tossed them onto Ron's bed. His expression was still dark, but uncertain.

She pushed up on her elbows and kissed him, felt his mouth tighten and then relax, as their lips met for the first time since before Dumbledore's death.

Some things are just right. Honey belongs on toast. Cold nights need flaming hearths. And Ginny's lips belonged on Harry's. She felt whole again for the first time in over a month.

Of course, whole as she felt, it was hard not to be distracted by the twitching of a stiff penis against her own naked inner thigh. Hard too for Harry—or rather, _difficult_. He broke the kiss and gazed down at her, questioning.

A grin welled up—and this one did have some of the twins' evil twisting it, Ginny knew. Ginny looped her feet over Harry's wonderful backside and urged him forward.

He resisted, and Ginny gave an exasperated moan. If she had had her wand at hand, she would have switched to Plan B right then and there, but it was down in her room and Ginny didn't particularly care to leave just yet.

Harry leaned down and kissed her, and then backed up. Just as Ginny was about to howl at him, he pointed his wand at his erection and cast a nonverbal spell on himself and then two on her.

Another thing that her dorm-mate rumor mill had gotten wrong: Lydia swore that it was always the girls who were responsible for contraceptive spells—that boys never think of them, since they won't be the ones stuck waddling around like Puffskeins for nine months if they don't.

Not Harry. He had thought. He had cared. He had taken responsibility. His face was as earnest and as serious and as terrible (in a good way) as anything that Ginny had ever seen and for the second time that night, Ginny felt tears well up—not angry this time, but overwhelmed and happy and…

“I love you, Ginny,” Harry said, his voice high and tremulous, and Ginny found that she was as blind as he was.

“Love you,” she spluttered, and then reached down between them, taking his still-wet cock and guiding it to her still-wet cunt.

Feeling him pushing up into her, Ginny screamed again; it felt as if she were being pulled to pieces in the most pleasant way possible. Harry stopped again, but she urged him further with her legs wrapped around his bum.

His cock—that tapered head, _so_ beautiful—pressed up against the wall of what was left of Ginny's hymen, of what years of flying broomsticks had left her. He hesitated, began to pull back. Merlin, that felt good too, but Ginny's body told her it was time, and she pulled hard against him with her arms and legs, and it _hurt_ and she cried out, and Harry began to back away again, but Ginny would not let him, she _had_ him, she pulled him in and they began to rock together, mouths together, that naked bum under her naked calves, her hands under his shirt and his hands searching, caressing under hers and too soon he stiffened and arched back, bellowing like a triumphant dragon, and a new flood exploded inside of Ginny's center, wet heat that splashed against parts of Ginny that she had not known where there, and they both collapsed.

When they had both caught their breath, Harry pulled slowly out; Ginny hissed at the raw sting. _There to remind us that there's pain at the other end too,_ her mum had said when Ginny had gotten The Talk two years back. Ginny thought, however, that it might have more to do with reminding young lovers that nothing was ever perfect.

Harry was leaving in a couple of days. He was going to go off doing something stupid. He and Ginny's brother and Hermione were going to save the world.

Or die trying.

Ginny wept silently, considering just what they had done, just where they were going. She felt Harry's knee press up against her hip, and she rolled onto her side, away from him. He spooned up behind her, his hand still beneath the conservative button-down top—also borrowed from Hermione. His fingers wormed their way up between her breasts, burning.

When she had caught her breath, and when the ache between her legs and the weight upon her chest had both subsided a bit, she reached up and squeezed his hand through the material of the blouse. “I do, Harry.”

“Do?” His breath tickled that sweaty back of her neck.

“Love you.”

“Love you.”

They lay there a bit longer, and Ginny decided that—as much as it had been wonderful—she was going to be paying for it tomorrow. For the rest of her life.

Lips pressed against the back of her head. “Why?” Harry asked.

She pondered, biting her lip. She knew what he was asking. “If Dumbledore hadn't died, Harry, do you think we would have got here by now?”

After a five-heartbeat silence, he whispered, “Yeah. Yeah, by now, if not sooner.”

“Do you think Voldemort should be able to rob us of this?”

Ten heartbeats. “No.”

A smile blossomed, and this one was purely her own. “There you are, then.”

He snuggled up against her. “So, was this the plan?”

“Plan?”

He squeezed her against him—his cock, limp now, pressed up against her bum, the skirt still crumpled around her waist. With a chuckle, he said, “Come on, Ginny. You've been stalking me since Monday.”

“Oh. _That_ plan.” And so Ginny told him all about Plan A, told him that she had gotten ahead of herself, but that she thought perhaps that he didn't mind too much.

He didn't. “And what was Plan B?”

“Bat-bogey Hex,” Ginny murmured.

Harry laughed.

“Harry?” Ginny said, some time later, as she felt their bodies finally beginning to cool. “You've got a year.”

“A year?”

“In a year I'll be of age. And I'm coming to wherever you are. And I'm staying with you.”

Twenty heartbeats. “What if I don't let you?”

She rolled over, throwing her leg over his hip and pulling his pelvis against hers again. “That hex works on _any_ mucus membrane, Harry.”

He frowned, and then his eyebrows shot up and his eyes were brilliant green and perfectly round. He laughed, rolling her back onto her back, and he kissed her.

The fifth day, everything changed.  


> _Plans never survive the first engagement with the enemy._ —Field Marshall Helmuth von Moltke (1845–1916)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I hope I didn't lead the more romantic among you too far astray with the title. :-)
> 
> If you have any questions about that, or about just what Ginny's final threat is about... just let me know.
> 
> I did find out while writing this that the word "bint" comes from the Arabic, meaning "daughter." It was picked up by British soldiers stationed in Egypt during the First World War. So there you go!


	2. Give & Take

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, it is better to receive than to give. (Harry/Ginny, NC-17)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Written on August 11, 2006)
> 
> Happy Birthday, Ginny!!! 
> 
> This fic was inspired by two (very NWS) birthday images by the amazing reallycorking. I'll link to them later in the fic...

Ginny's eyes flicked open: the door to her room had clicked shut. Pre-dawn light gilded her room, turning everything from her bookshelf to the bright blue Tutshill Tornados poster a pale gold.

Something was off.

Hermione had snuck out just after midnight—just after wishing Ginny a happy sixteenth; her bed lay empty still. Who would have peeked into Ginny's room at five in the morning? Her mum seemed likely, but Molly Weasley was preternaturally skilled at moving about the Burrow in utter silence. Her dad was on some assignment for the Order, having promised that he'd return by her party tonight.

She heard a rustle. Inside her room. She gripped her wand under her pillow.

The wards around the Burrow had been doubled—Ginny, Harry and Hermione had watched in fascination as Bill and Fleur wove new defensive charms around the ones that already defended the house. Order members were taking turns watching the perimeter of the property before the wedding.

Harry…

She was disappointed that Harry hadn't snuck in when Hermione snuck out.

Another sound—a quiet-as-owl-wings footfall. Coming towards the bed.

She'd rather worn poor Harry out the previous night. They were discovering that there were all _sorts_ of ways to fit his body into hers, and she'd determined to explore as many of them as possible last night in Percy's room. The feeling of power as she sat astride him, watching him…

Another footstep, almost too soft to be heard.

“ _Accio Invisibility Cloak!_ ” Ginny hissed, and was relieved and amused when a shimmer flew into her hand revealing in its wake her astonished boyfriend, still on tiptoe.

Totally naked.

“Good morning, Harry,” giggled Ginny.

“Uh,” Harry managed, frozen in place. “Happy birthday?”

“Yes! And I've already unwrapped my first present!”

He straightened up and a smiled twitched on his lips. It always made Ginny's heart flutter a bit to see him smile—to see him smile because of _her_. He never smiled enough, especially of late—she knew how anxious and frightened he was, hell, how frightened _she_ was, and so the sight of that smile, of those green eyes pinching the way that they did when he laughed, it all made her feel… It made her feel. There were no words.

“Well,” he said at last, stepping towards her with a rather dangerous look on his face, “I'm afraid that I still haven't _given_ you your first present yet.”

“Oh,” she said, and his widening grin made an entirely different part of her anatomy flutter.

“Yes. This is a present I've been wanting to give you… for a very, very long time.”

Ginny had gone from sleep to fear to amusement in a few short moments, but the sound of Harry's voice and the promise in his eye took her someplace else entirely. She felt her quim, still a bit sore from the exertions of the past few days, flower open. “Oh,” she muttered again.

He leaned forward and kissed her. Kissed her fully, leaving Ginny feeling far more naked even than sex ever had. She felt transparent, utterly exposed, as if this kiss revealed everything to Harry: not only her body, inside and out, but every little fear, every ugly little secret, every time she had wished him ill, or herself ill, every time she dreamt of finding herself back in the Chamber of Secrets. It was exciting to expose herself to Harry, but it was terrifying as well.

He broke the kiss and smiled, and Ginny felt herself breathe again. “Least _you_ had a chance to brush your teeth,” she burbled, arms crossed in front of her diamond-hard nipples.

He gave a soft laugh. “You taste fabulous,” he said, plucking her wand out of her limp hand and leaning back forward. Not into a kiss this time—his lips brushed along her cheek and back to her ear. He murmured, puffs of warm desire, “I want to taste you, Ginny. Every bit of you. I want to devour you whole. That's your present.”

“Okay,” Ginny said, her voice suddenly very high.

Harry's hands moved under her t-shirt—his t-shirt actually. She felt her wand's handle up her spine as he lifted the fabric. Her arms were still crossed and she couldn't manage to uncross them, to reveal this too, to let him see how a kiss and a caress and a smile had evoked such desire in her.

“Going to let me take this off, or do I have to Vanish it?” he muttered, letting his tongue slide along the lobe. “Yum.”

Trembling, Ginny grabbed the battered Gryffindor Quidditch shirt and pulled it up. Harry was straddling her legs, his body pressed close to hers, and so as the shirt lifted, it exposed her body to his. She knew that body intimately now, but it felt cool and alien against her bed-warm flesh. Her breasts bounced free, the nipples buzzing as they slid against his ribs.

His tongue continued to explore her ear, the side of her neck. She whimpered with disappointment when he backed away to allow her to lift the shirt above her head, but once the horrible, offending shirt was gone, he attacked the bottom of her chin and worked slowly around to the other ear.

His tongue found its way in and she gasped.

“Lie on your belly,” Harry said.

Ginny stiffened.

“Come on, Ginny. I've got your wand. Don't make me use it.” His tone was playful and light and so-so-so _sexy_ , but what on earth…? “Trust me, Ginny.”

Moving with arms and legs that seemed to have gone boneless, she rolled beneath him, feeling his testicles brushing along one hip and across her bum. “I t-trust you, Harry. With everything that I am.”

He sat silently across her backside for a moment, and she felt him shudder. Then she felt him casting some non-verbal spells—two or three, but none of the ones that she'd gotten used to, the Prophylaxis and Lubricus Charms that they'd been quickly perfecting. Something tingled across the whole of her skin; a squelching sound came from the door.

What…?

She felt him shift forward and brush her mane, still wild from last night's exercise, off of her shoulders. “Last fall,” Harry murmured, a little more loudly now—Silencing Charm?—as he leaned further forward still, “I dreamed about doing this. I had the most amazing, explicit, exciting dream of lying right here on your bed, naked against your naked back, kissing my way across every… single… freckle.” He was as good as his word. His lips touched at the back of her neck and began slowly to meander down the line of one shoulder. Ginny felt a vibration pass from the point of contact, down through her quim to her toes, which flexed against her sheets.

“And as I kissed each one,” he said, continuing his sweet torture, “I tasted you.” His tongue passed down the top of one shoulder blade. “And you tasted _so good_.”

He kissed her spine and Ginny released a breathy moan into her mattress. “I… d-did?”

“In the dream you tasted like cinnamon sugar and treacle tart…” _His favorites_ , a part of Ginny's mind sighed. He licked and nibbled along. “But nowhere as good as you do in reality.”

Ginny knew where this was headed. Knew what her bloody birthday present was. And a part of her wished he'd get _on_ with it, but a part of her… Oh, a part of her, most of her really, was so awash in sensation that the idea of doing anything but feel those lips, that tongue, those teeth slowly make their pilgrimage down her back was simply unimaginable.

At the point of each hip, he gave a gentle bite—her skinny bloody hips that she'd always hated so, but _ohhhhh_ …—and then, as he reached the dimple at the base of her spine he gave a long, languorous lick that carried him back up to the ribs.

There was nothing muffled about the moan that Ginny gave this time. She arched back like a cobra, her breasts bouncing tautly, and gave a good, Gryffindor growl.

Harry laughed, kissing her on each shoulder and running his hands back down her sides—the first time he had touched her with anything other than his mouth. “Shhhh…. I haven't shown you the whole dream yet…” He kissed his way back down her spine, more lightly now. “I tasted _all_ of you, Ginny.”

His mouth reached that dimple again, and his hands rested on her buttocks and urged them apart.

She squeaked. For the first time in years and years, Ginny Weasley squeaked, fighting him in spite of herself. “Oh, Merlin, Harry…”

“Shhhh,” he soothed, kissing gently down the inner edge of one buttock and up the other. “It's all right.”

_Cleansing charms_ , a giddy part of her brain realized—that must have been what he had been casting before. “It is. _Oh,_ it issss…!”

He touched his tongue to a place about which Ginny thought as little as possible—really, it was a nasty, purely functional part of her body, wasn't it? But the feel of his tongue, of his breath against her wrinkled flesh caused a wet wave of warmth to explode through her pelvis and she pressed back against him, writhing. The first small orgasm of the morning. “ _Merlin_.”

“Yeah,” said Harry, his voice husky.

_He's going to fuck me there, he's going to fuck my arsehole, oh…! Please, Merlin…  
_

But Harry began kissing and nibbling his way down her trembling thigh.

_Some other time, perhaps…  
_

He continued to move slowly, deliberately, savoring her like a fine bottle of mead. “That was the end of the dream,” Harry said, and his voice sounded low and urgent. “Came all over my sheets. Woke up thanking God your brother and Dean couldn't practice Legilimency.

Of course, he said this just as he began laving attention on the back of her knee and she began to giggle. “Stop it!”

He snorted too. “Stop…? You want me to…?”

“ _NO!_ ” she howled. “Oh, Merlin, NO! Please, Merlin, Harry, don't, please, don't, _ohhh…”  
_

He began kissing her feet.

Another part of her body that Ginny had never thought of as anything but utilitarian. He nibbled at her ankle, licked at the instep, sending sparks right back up to Ginny's center, and then sucked Ginny's big toe into that moist, hot mouth, triggering another roman candle in Ginny's pelvis. “ _HNNNNH._ ”

Cool air washed over the toe as he released her, and once again she whimpered.

Once again he said, “Roll over.”

This time she did not hesitate.

Harry sucked each of the toes on the other foot into his mouth in turn, and Ginny pushed up onto her elbows, staring at him, at this boy who had barely been able to kiss her a few months ago, but _now…  
_

“G-ginny,” he mumbled, kissing his way at a steady, studied pace up her leg, “I, I wanted to do your whole front too before—”

“Later,” Ginny urged, her own voice suddenly low with need.

He nodded and worked his way up the inside of her left thigh, trailing his tongue as he went.

“AHH!” Ginny stared down into his eyes, green eyes, and the light of dawn breaking through the window washed across his back and his bum and it felt as if the whole world was glowing.

Harry's mouth met Ginny's cunt and suddenly she couldn't look anymore. She closed her eyes, and her leg curled of its own accord over his shoulder and her chin drooped to her chest.

Harry had done this just before the first time they made love. It had been the most wonderful sensation she had ever experienced. But this…

The sunlight was inside of her. The sunrise was at their union.

And it _flared_ …

Ginny's eyes flickered open; the ceiling was pink with the dawn. She was panting.

Harry kissed his way up her belly. He was getting the front after all.

At each breast, another small sunburst.

His mouth met hers. She tasted the salt from her body—when had she started sweating?—and the tang of her own cunt and the tiniest bit of his toothpaste.

“Happy birthday, Ginny.”

“Mmmmmmmmm…”

His smile was full and broad and Ginny felt as if her own happiness was going to overflow her body and drown them both.

She pushed him back.

“Ginny?” Green eyes blinked, suddenly concerned.

“Lie back,” she said.

He gawked at her.

She picked up her wand from where he'd abandoned it in the sheets. “Don't make me hex you, Potter. It _is_ my birthday, after all.”

“Sure…” He flopped back, his legs over hers. They stared at each other, each propped up on elbows.

His cock stood proudly, twitching with his heartbeat.

Ginny flopped onto her belly, her feet up in the air, and began to run the tip of her wand up the inside of his leg. He shivered.

What to do? What did she want?

His cock.

She stuck out her tongue, touched the tip to the base of his cock and licked slowly up its length. Harry let out a strangled gasp.

_Mmmmmmmm…_ Here was something they hadn't tried.

“Ginny,” panted Harry, “you don't have to…”

“Shh,” Ginny commanded. She grasped his erection with one hand and studied it; it seemed so lovely, nothing so scary, really, was it? In fact… “I've been wanting to give you this… for a very, very long time.”

He gulped.

“I want to taste you, Harry. I want to swallow you. I want to devour you whole.” Savoring his gobsmacked expression, the golden light, the flavor of him, the feeling of him, the closeness of him, she leaned forward and did just that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I adapted this story as a piece of "original" erotica, [Under the Covers](http://stillpointeros.com/product/covers-top-2-new-adult-mf-erotic-romance/). :-)


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